


The One with the Grilled Cheese

by RowboatCop



Series: 3 Times Coulson Didn't Visit Skye at The Retreat (and 1 Time He Did) [3]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Coulson cooking, Drinking, F/M, Grilled Cheese, Kitchen Sex, Oral Sex, Skoulson Sex Cabin, Skoulson date, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 18:35:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4148529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowboatCop/pseuds/RowboatCop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson returns to The Retreat a couple of days after dropping Skye off there, and they have a date. Featuring feels and porn and grilled cheese.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One with the Grilled Cheese

“Hi,” he greets her when she opens the front door.

He shifts his backpack — slung over his right shoulder — and the paper bag of groceries in his left arm, but he doesn’t make a move to enter and she doesn’t wave him inside. Instead, they just...look at each other.

She’s barefoot, but wearing a dress. Probably the only one he’s ever seen her in that wasn’t for an undercover op; the same one she put on the first day they met. (Except he realizes that from her perspective, that actually _was_ an undercover op.)

It’s sort of shocking because Skye just doesn’t wear dresses.

Even though she looks amazing in them. Or at least, in this one.

He spends too long taking in picture she makes — hair curled around her shoulders, darker makeup around her eyes than he’s used to seeing lately, a dress that cinches in at her waist and shows off almost too much of her legs.

Skye dressed up for him, and he thinks maybe he’s not the only one who couldn’t stop thinking of tonight as a date.

“Hi,” she responds, finally, and he realizes that she was taking in his outfit, too. He’s dressed down a bit — a pair of tight jeans, no tie, and sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows — but he thinks it’s a little closer to the person he wants to be for her.

She had asked him, two days ago, to stop being the SHIELD guy and just be her friend. That’s what he wants to do.

And although _friend_ might be putting it a bit lightly, it’s where he’s ready to start, at least.

She looks past him at the Quinjet.

“May didn’t come?”

He hopes that’s not disappointment in her voice.

“No, just me.”

May had piloted the jet remotely, but she knew as well as he did — maybe better than he did — that there was no place for her at the cabin this evening. (She had visited yesterday, had brought Skye a bag of more clothes, probably including the dress.)

“She didn’t want any of your grilled cheese?”

“Nah. May’s not much for comfort foods.”

Silence falls between them — a moment of awkward because this is different — and he swallows. There’s a flash of this instinct to hug her, to pull her up against him again with his free arm.

He doesn’t follow through.

“Come in.”

They step inside together, still awkwardly, and he sets down his backpack at the door. Another glance at her bare feet, and he toes off his socks and shoes, too, before heading into the kitchen with his groceries.

Skye watches him unpack the bag silently.

It’s mostly ingredients for grilled cheese and tomato soup — several kinds of cheese, a loaf of artisan bread, cans of tomatoes, spices, broth, butter, cream — and a bar of good chocolate. And then wine. Four bottles of wine, to be exact.

“That’s a lot of wine, Coulson.” She raises her eyebrow at him, and it makes him blush because he had agonized over it, actually. Like, standing in the grocery store with his basket of gourmet foods, he had spent much too long on this question of whether to get any wine, of whether she likes it at all, of whether she’d prefer red or white, merlot or cab, chardonnay or riesling.

So he bought them all.

Just in case.

Basically, he’s past the point of worrying that he looks desperate.

“I realized I didn’t know your preference.”

She nods, looking kind of pleased in general.

“I don’t think I have one. I haven’t had the chance to drink that much wine.”

Because she’s so young, he knows. Because she’s barely had a few years when she could legally buy the stuff, let alone enough time to develop taste preferences, and she’s _so young_ —

“I’ve always been more of a bourbon girl, you know?”

It cuts through his fears and makes him smile because he does know — they’ve sat together at the bar on the Bus before, drinking and talking, and this isn’t so different.

Even though it is.

“I brought some of that, too,” he gestures to his backpack.

“Geez, Coulson. How exactly are you planning on getting back to the base tonight?”

“I don’t intend for us to drink it all,” he defends himself. “And May set autopilot again.”

Coulson swallows, unsure about this part, if this is the moment to even say it.

“But I also don’t have to go back tonight.”

His eyes stray to his backpack, where — in addition to the bourbon — he’s been so bold as to pack a change of clothes and a toiletries kit.

And a box of condoms.

Not out of expectation, but out of...possibility. Not that he’s planning to tell her that.

Skye glances to his backpack and then back to him.

“You don’t?” Her voice is cautious, like she’s trying not to assume anything, even in the face of his obvious statement.

“No, I…” He swallows nervously. “I figured we could play it by ear.”

Her cautious expression fades, leaving her looking _shocked_ , like she has no idea what to say, and Coulson shifts his weight nervously from foot to foot.

He’s about to apologize because he didn’t mean for this to be how he told her — he didn’t really mean to tell her, didn’t mean to lay this out as something that she might take as an expectation.

And then she makes it better, as she often does, by smiling.

“Let’s open one of those, then,” she suggests while pointing at his bottles of wine. “I think we need to talk before you start cooking.”

He smiles back at her, some of the tension falling away as she joins him in the kitchen.

They work together, silent but in sync, as they put away the groceries that need putting away. Then Skye retrieves wine glasses while he finds the bottle opener, but he pauses as he eyes the four bottles of wine.

“Which are you going to open?”

“One of the reds,” he answers. “The whites need to chill.”

She nods and takes the bottles to the fridge while he picks up the merlot to consider it.

“I don’t care, honestly,” she tells him as she comes to stand next to him again.

Opening the bottle is easy work, but she watches with interest, like it’s somehow impressive.

He sort of hates how much he loves it when Skye finds him impressive; tries to keep from puffing out his chest

Carefully, he fills the two glasses and passes her one.

The awkwardness returns as they stand together barefoot in the kitchen, each bringing a glass of wine to their lips. It’s odd how much this feels like something they have done before, but also...different.

“You should know the couch is really uncomfortable,” she tells him conversationally. He blinks, unsure what to do with that information.

“You want me to get you a new one?”

He’s already planning it, to be honest, can probably shift around some stuff to find funds.

“No, I just wanted you to know. If you’re thinking you might stay the night, you shouldn’t plan to sleep on the couch.”

It’s so...matter-of-fact. And then she takes a sip from her glass, watching him over the rim.

“Noted,” he answers, and his mouth feels suddenly too dry.

They each take a long swallow of wine, silence like a person in the room between them, and he has no fucking clue what he’s supposed to say because it’s possible they’ve just agreed that they’re both going to end up in her bed tonight.

“Coulson —”

“Skye —”

They start simultaneously and then each gesture for the other to speak. Neither of them do.

“So is this your play, then?” Skye finally asks him after what feels like minutes, raising her eyebrows over her glass.

“Play?”

“You packed a romantic meal to cook for me, Coulson. Is this, like, a thing you do? To...woo someone?”

She says woo almost sarcastically, but she’s smiling like she’s flattered, and normally he think’s he’s pretty good at reading her but tonight he just can’t. Does Skye want to be special, or does she want to know that he’s doing for her what he’s done for his past sexual partners?

Because he’s cooked plenty of romantic meals in his time, and in a way that’s what he plans to do for Skye. But he’s never been so unsure of himself, never been so scared of a woman’s response.

“I’ve made you this exact meal before,” he half-defends himself. It had been scary then, too. But last time — last time five whole days ago — his fears about their relationship were nothing compared to his fears about all of the hiding she was doing, the deflecting, the running from the truth.

And maybe, now that they’re facing everything head on, it will get better.

“There wasn’t any wine. I’d remember if there had been wine.”

“This is better circumstances,” he allows, and Skye smiles.

“It wasn’t very date-like. Pretty low marks for romance,” she teases, “even though we did eat it in my bed.”

He chokes on a swallow of wine and realizes that it’s the last one, that he’s practically guzzled it in his nervousness. Setting down the empty glass, he makes a mental note to pace himself from here on out.

“So is this one going to get better marks?”

“You’re doing okay so far,” she allows. “But you’ve gotta relax a little.”

Skye sets down her half-full glass and approaches him, stands right in front of him so he’s leaning back against the counter.

“Do I make you nervous, Phil?”

She asks the question teasingly, but her use of his first name startles him, gets him snickered at a little bit before her right hand curves up behind the back of his neck and then runs under his shirt collar.

“I didn’t mean to make it sound like I was propositioning you,” he tells her.

“You didn’t.”

“I wanted you to make the first move. So you’d know —”

“That’s what I’m doing right now,” she suggests to him, squeezing the back of his neck lightly, and he’s sort of annoyed by how cool she’s playing this.

He swears he used to be cool.

(It’s a lie; he was never cool.)

And then she kisses him.

The first touch of lips is soft, and he exhales against her mouth — it comes out like a quiet moan as Skye directs his head downwards so she can press her lips more firmly against his.  

Coulson grips the counter behind him to hold himself steady and pushes his head forward into the kiss; the blunt ends of her nails scratch up the back of his head, making him shiver against her.

“Skye,” he whimpers her name into her mouth, and she pulls back.

“Touch me.”

He becomes fully aware of how tightly he’s clutching the counter, a white-knuckled grip that keeps his hands almost behind his back. Honestly, he’s a little worried about his own self-control, about his ability to do anything other than _have her_ if he starts touching her.

“That might be a bad idea.”

“Touch me, Coulson,” she practically orders him, her tone brooking no argument.

The sound of her voice makes his cock somehow harder, and it’s like she can tell exactly what it does to him to hear her speak that way.

“Not there,” she corrects him when his hands slide over her hips to tug her body up against him. “Here.”

She links her fingers through his so her hands rest over his, and together they run his palms up her torso until he’s cupping her breasts. Her nipples stiffen under his touch, and she works his hands down slightly, encouraging him to rub his index fingers over them, flicking them gently with the backs of his fingernails.

“That’s good,” she breathes, and Coulson can’t take his eyes off of her. Or his hands on her. Or her hands on his hands on her. It feels surreal, like it can’t possibly be happening, and then Skye leans in and kisses him again.

The reality of Skye’s mouth and Skye’s hands and Skye’s breasts and Skye’s body sinks in as he parts his lips for her and welcomes the sensation of her tongue against his. When she moans — a soft, breathy sound — at a soft nip at her lower lip, he pushes her backwards, so she’s the one against a counter, and begins to take control of the kiss.

But she stops him, something like a coy smile playing at the edges of her lips.

“Aren’t you going to make me dinner?”

He nods, but can’t pull his eyes away from her mouth, especially when she sucks her lower lip between her teeth before releasing it.

“I want the full Phil Coulson experience,” Skye informs him.

His mind goes to a very dirty place, which must be clearly broadcast by his expression and the way he squeezes her breasts almost reflexively.  

“Not like _that_.” Skye frowns at him, but it’s a playful frown as she slips out from between him and the counter.

He swallows and manages to pull himself together a bit.

“You want me to woo you?”

“What was your plan tonight, really?” She picks up her glass of wine again, and Coulson’s not sure whether to be nervous or not.

“No plan,” he promises.

“You bought half a liquor store and made arrangements to stay here overnight, but you didn’t have a plan?”

“No?” He feels his cheeks flush at what she’s implying, and he knows he’s coming across badly, but he can’t bear to have her think that he would take advantage of her, that he would have an agenda where she is concerned.

She frowns at him, but it’s real this time.

“Can you just talk to me, please?”

“I didn’t have a plan,” he promises her. “I would never expect...”

“I know that, Coulson. It’s not like I’m accusing you of something _bad_. I’m asking what you want, okay?”

“But it’s not about what I want.”

“So you brought wine in case I wanted it. And you planned the day off tomorrow in case I wanted you to stay.”

“Yes.”

“And because you want those things, too?”

His face heats up again, and he drops his gaze to the ground.

“I think I’ve already been too obvious about that,” he admits quietly, and that’s the rub of it, the reason why he _can’t_ just talk to her.

“No, you _really_ haven’t.”

And, well, he’s been obvious enough for May to notice, but not for Skye apparently. After all, he’s basically spoken all in metaphors and glances and long stares that make him blush.

But that’s not fair to her. Even if he wants her to be the one calling the shots, he needs to make his own desires more apparent.

“You’re beautiful,” he begins. “I’ve been attracted to you since the day we met.”

Skye smiles at him, like he’s confirming her suspicions, and then drags her eyes down his body. And well, he’s never really questioned whether Skye (or anyone) has found him attractive, but it’s a nice confirmation.

“I realized it was...more than attraction when you stormed into that shack in the desert and pulled me out of Raina’s machine.”

Her eyes widen, like she’s shocked, like this is news.

“None of this,” he gestures to her, to the cabin around them, “changes that for me.”

“But this is different. I thought... For a minute, like a year ago, I thought that maybe you would...do something. But you didn’t. And I was fine with that. What changed?”

“I thought we couldn’t do this, then.”

“When did you decide we could?”

“I was watching you while you were in quarantine after San Juan. And I wanted…”

He doesn’t know how to explain what he wanted, actually.

“Coulson?”

“Do you remember Miss Hutchins? And how we had to keep her locked up…”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “That was hard.”

“It was.” He swallows. “There are reasons that we have protocols in place, good ones —”

“I know.”

“— but sometimes I want to throw them out. To just do what I know someone needs.”

“And what do they need?”

“Most of the time? A friend. A hug. To be told that...that whatever bad things have happened, it’s not their fault.”

“You gave me all of that,” Skye reminds him, but Coulson shakes his head.

“No, I sat behind glass. I sat behind glass and I obeyed protocol because I had to.”

“You were still with me.”

“Not as much as I wanted to be.”

“I know.” Skye nods, so adamantly, her eyes telling him how certain she is of this. “I could feel you. The whole time you were there, I could feel you.”

“But I wanted to give you more. And I decided that…”

“That if you had to leave me in quarantine, then when I got out you were going to go for it?”

“That I wasn’t going to put up a wall anymore,” he half-corrects her. “That if it seemed like you…”

She nods, and then looks down, almost surprised.

“You didn’t know. That was before you knew about...” She holds up her hand — still mottled with light bruising.

“It doesn’t change anything for me. You’re still...Skye.”

“I’m still the red corvette?”

He blushes at the memory, but nods nonetheless.

“I didn’t want to bring you here, either,” he adds.

“I know that, too. I talked to May yesterday.”

“What did May say?” Coulson frowns at this because he wants to protect Skye from whatever is about to go down with the team, from whatever Hunter and Mack are hiding from him, from the fears that May is doing an excellent job of working through.

“That it’s dangerous right now. Some stuff I already knew. Some I didn’t. That I’m not here because I’m a danger to others.”

He nods.

“You didn’t want me to know about Hunter, did you?”

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

“You want me to focus on myself, like Andrew suggested.”

“I want you with me,” he tells her, like an admission of guilt, like a confession of his sins. “I want you to focus on yourself for as long as you need, so you can...be with me.”

“That’s where I want to be, too,” she replies as though this is normal, as though he isn’t placing his own desires ahead of her well-being, as though this isn’t further evidence of how _selfish_ he has been. “Hey,” she calls him out of his head with a hand on his cheek. “I’m not going anywhere. Not for long, anyways.”

“Good.”

She kisses him again, not the frantic meeting of lips of a few moments ago, but a series of soft, slow, gentle presses of her mouth against his.

“So you came here to tell me all of this?”

“Yes,” he responds, a whisper between their lips.

“And to cook me dinner?”

“Yes.”

“And to seduce me?”

He laughs at that, just a single puff of air from his belly, and pulls backwards so he can see her face.

“No, not to seduce you.”

“That’s a lot of wine for someone with no plans of seduction, Coulson.”

“Maybe I came to let myself be seduced.”

“So you expect me to do all the work?”

He smiles again, can feel his cheeks get a little hot.

“I was going to make it easy for you,” he promises.

“Hmm, get a little drunk and show off your chest hair?”

She lets a finger drift down from his neck to dip just under the open neck of his shirt. Her nails scratch _so lightly_ over his skin and then tug softly at the bit of hair she can reach, and he shivers at the sensation. It’s maddening to feel her fingers so close to his skin but not touching it; so close to the scar over his heart, but not touching it.

“It’s working, isn’t it?” His voice shakes slightly as he tries to maintain his teasing tone, and Skye laughs at him, a breathy little sound.

“I guess it is.”

She pulls back, though, instead of pressing forward.

“So what happens next, then? On a night in with Phil Coulson?”

He smiles and tries to play along, tries to play like this isn’t — in all the ways that matter — completely uncharted territory for him.

“I cook for you,” he answers, managing to sound _almost_ cool.

“And what do I do while you cook?”

“That depends on which date it is,” he answers back, starting to warm up to this, to feel comfortable flirting with her.  

“Oh?”

He steps back into her space, but doesn’t push forward, instead takes gentle hold of her hand.

“First date, you’d sit at the table,” he points just behind them. “Somewhere comfortable, but where you could be impressed by my knife skills.”

“We had our first date the first day we met,” Skye informs him. “You took me for a ride in a flying car. I was very impressed.”

He grins and pulls gently on her hand, bringing it up to his lips so he can kiss the back before trailing soft lips down her index finger.

“Second date,” he pauses to press his lips to the pad of her index finger, watching through his eyelashes as her lips fall open at the gesture, “you’d sit on the counter. Somewhere I could kiss you while I work.”

“Second date, you rescued me from an airplane. We sat by a pool and you gave me chocolate. I was so sure —”

“I wanted to,” he whispers as his lips move to the pad of her middle finger and he kisses the skin there softly.

“But you thought we couldn’t,” she repeats his words from earlier.

“And then I found out about TAHITI.”

She nods, but doesn’t let the darkness of the thoughts linger. Neither does he because there’s no point to the self-flagellation, no point to living there.

“Third date?”

Coulson smiles against the pad of her middle finger and pulls it into his mouth, swirls his tongue around the tip. He can feel her shiver, see the rate of her breathing get faster.

“Mmmm,” he considers and half-hums around her digit before pulling her hand back. “You sit _on_ the table so I can _impress_ you while the soup cooks.” He raises his eyebrows at her, almost shocked at his own blatant innuendo.

She doesn’t seem to mind.

In fact, Skye laughs, but her cheeks are flushed, and Coulson smirks at having been able to fluster her. But of course, Skye is Skye and she doesn’t say flustered for long. Instead, she pulls away from him and slides backwards so she can hop up on the kitchen table, leaving her glass of wine behind on the counter.

“Well, that makes this our third date, right?”

He shrugs because he supposes that by her math, it is, and he approaches her slowly.

“If you like.”

“How are you going to impress me?”

She parts her thighs invitingly, allowing him to step between her legs; he lets his right hand drag along her bare thigh as he presses closer, curls his left behind her neck and pulls her into a kiss.

He means to pull away — to start making dinner — but he gets lost in the feeling of her mouth under his, her hands on his chest.

She lets out a tiny, half-gasped moan when his lips fall to her neck, and he can’t stop himself from placing a line of kisses down towards her cleavage. He grunts at Skye’s reaction — thrusting her chest towards him as she leans back on her hands, as though offering herself up, and every tiny gasp makes his cock throb.

Coulson’s fingers shake, but he still makes quick work of the line of tiny buttons that run down the top of her dress, baring a deep V and the inner curves of her breasts.

“Fuck,” he sighs at the sight of the front closure on her bra. It’s fantasy fulfillment — Skye in front of him, him pushing Skye’s clothes aside to bare her breasts. He swallows when her nipples come into view, his jaw drops, and he sort of...gapes.

“Coulson,” Skye sighs his name, and he slowly drags his eyes back up to her face, back up to meet her very amused gaze.

His mouth is definitely still open.

Skye laughs — laughs directly at him — and then reels him in by the collar of his shirt in order to kiss him, hard. He can taste her laughter against her lips, her teeth, her tongue, but he doesn’t care at all. He laughs back because suddenly this is his life, groping Skye’s naked breasts on the kitchen table at The Retreat.

“I feel like I’m the one impressing you,” Skye tells him, leaning back on her hands.

“I’m very impressed,” he whispers in agreement, and forces a swallow. “You’re very impressive.”

She smiles at him, and he can see it in her eyes — that he could have her right now.

And he _wants_ her right now.

But he also wants something else.

He pulls back, sucking in a deep breath as he does.

“Where are you going?” There’s an undercurrent of fear there, as though he might be really pulling away.

“To cook you dinner,” he tells her, leaning in to lay a kiss on her lips, long and lingering to leave her in no doubt that he's not going anywhere.

“You can’t impress me right here?”

“This is where I impress you with my patience,” he promises.

“Because your patience is so impressive?”

“So I’ve been told,” he answers with a raised eyebrow and a flirty smirk.

It just makes her laugh, though, which makes her breasts move, drawing his eye down.

“You want me to cover up?”

Coulson swallows at the sight of her on the table — dress open, breasts exposed, smirking at him so that every dirty thought in her head is painted on her face.

“No,” he answers, and leans back in to suck her right nipple before pulling away. “No, you should stay just like that.”

Which is how he comes to be grating cheese while Skye sits on the table, practically topless. It makes his hands feel almost unsteady, but he sort of adjusts — he manages to keep from shaking too much, and once the soup is started, he’s able to feed her bites of cheese without making an idiot of himself.

“Tell me honestly,” she asks him as he pulls back from another lingering kiss that follows a bite of Gruyere and a sip of wine, “what do you want to happen tonight?”

His instinct is to deny again — to deny that he wants this for himself — but in addition to being a lie, it’s a disservice to her.

“I want to make love to you,” he answers, voice shaking on the admission.

“But you didn’t plan on it.” She’s teasing him, now, running a finger down the buttons on his shirt.

“I didn’t plan on it, but I prepared for the possibility?”

He can feel himself blush.

“Is that Coulson-speak for, ‘Just so you know, Skye, I brought condoms’?”

Her fingers curl around his belt buckle as she speaks.

“Yes?”

“That’s good, Coulson,” she tells him like this is an arousing thing, that he brought some fucking condoms. “I like a man who’s prepared.”

Her hand slides from his belt buckle to feel out the shape of his cock, and he drops his head to her shoulder helplessly against the rush of pleasure that curls up through his stomach.

“Shit, Skye,” he whispers against her neck. “That feels so good.”

It makes her smile, and then pull back, almost pensive.

“Coulson,” she sighs his name and captures his face between her palms. “When’s the last time you were _with_ someone?”

He shakes his head.

“Such a long time. I hadn’t seen Audrey for months before I died, and since then…”

“Ohh, Coulson,” she sighs sadly and kisses him, her palms still warm against his cheeks before she drops them and frowns. “When’s the last time you…”

Skye makes an obscene gesture, and Coulson isn’t sure whether to be scandalized or to laugh. He manages a combination of the two.

“I’m serious,” she frowns at him, and he makes a valiant effort to focus on her face and not her breasts.

“I haven’t had time to think about _that_ in...a long time,” he admits.

“Thats what I thought.” She nods seriously and then begins unbuckling his belt.

“What —” He’s silenced by her hand pressing against his erection, by the bolt of heat that as she pulls down the zipper. “What are you —”

And then he doesn’t need to ask because Skye’s fingers are wrapped around his cock, and he’s incapable of anything but groaning.

“Sit,” she orders him, gesturing to the chair on her right. He follows suit, even though it means she releases his cock. Quickly, though, she’s kneeling between his feet.

“I’m supposed to be impressing you,” he reminds her, though there’s no real protest in his voice — there’s no real protest in him at all, especially not when her hand slides down his shaft, pulling down as her breath washes over the head.

“We have time for that later. You’re staying the night, remember?”

Her tongue makes a slow circuit and then her lips chase after, sucking lightly as she pumps her hand slowly and firmly at the base of his shaft. He hisses out a long breath and almost immediately feels the tell-tale pulse behind his balls.

“Fuck, Skye,” he breathes her name, “I’m so close.”

She pops her mouth off of him and raises an eyebrow at him.

“I figured.”

He smiles and combs a hand through her hair because he’s never had a woman do this for him — not the blow job, but the rationale, the pushing him down and giving him something just because he needs it.

Then she sets back to work, moving more slowly but just as firm, keeping him teetering at the edge of orgasm for long enough to build it up, to make it count.

It’s been so long since he’s even thought seriously about sex, like the entire world has been falling apart around him for as far back as he can remember. Like Skye had only just healed from getting shot before SHIELD fell, like he was still figuring out what SHIELD’s fall meant when he woke up carving on the wall, like he only just regained full control of his own body before walking Skye into a situation where she lost control of hers.

He’s not sure the last time he just _relaxed_.

His whole body pulses as he drops some of the weight of the world, as he just sinks back into the kitchen chair and lets this be his life, now.

“ _Fuck_ , Skye.”

As though she knows, she moves even more slowly, drawing out a slow burn of pleasure as he breathes her name instead of air.

But she doesn’t stop once he’s come. She keeps her mouth and her hands on him, gentle and supportive, letting him stay collapsed in the chair, lazily stroking her hair until he can sit up again.

When she rises up off her knees, there’s a hint of uncertainty in her expression, though he can’t understand why.

“That was incredible,” he tells her, tugging her forward into his lap and watching any uncertainty fade to a sort of smug smile. “You’re incredible.”

He’s gentle but thorough as he kisses her, able to focus entirely on her — the way his hands on her thighs make her grind against him, the way brushing over her nipples makes her thrust her chest forward, the way his lips just under her ear produce a quiet sigh.

“Coulson,” she whimpers his name and rocks her hips against him, and helps when he lifts her up to sit on the edge of the table. It’s quick work to get her panties off, and then he parts her thighs and presses his right hand up between her legs.

She moans as he explores her this way — by touch only, marveling at how wet she is — and her hips move against his hand as she seeks out more satisfying touches.

He pulls his hand back only long enough to tug her to the very edge of the table and push her dress up. His mouth falls open again, and he licks his lips obscenely.

“God, Coulson, please,” Skye pants, slips her hand behind his head to urge him forward, and he follows easily.

He takes it slow and easy, pressing his tongue against her so she shivers and then pushes her hips forward. Her fingers curl into his hair, scratching softly as she guides him to move harder, faster.

She comes apart under his mouth and then his fingers, writhing on the kitchen table until he’s wrapped his arms around her thighs to hold her open. He loses track of how long he spends like that until she tenses and then she pushes him away, grunting through a few deep breaths.

“Okay?”

She doesn’t answer, just shakes slightly as she breathes.

“I thought for a second that I was gonna…”

She holds up her hand and flexes her fingers, and then drops it back down, where she seems to melt into the table.

“You didn’t hurt yourself?” He panics a little bit, especially when she doesn’t respond right away.

“No,” she breathes, and pushes herself into a seated position, so that when he pulls her into a hug, his face is pressed to her belly, just beneath her bare breasts.

“This might have been a bad idea —”

“I’m fine,” she reassures him, stroking her fingers through his hair.

Coulson swallows and shakes his head, though he makes no move to pull back from her.

“You should be more freaked out about this.”

“Maybe.”

She doesn’t sound freaked out at all, though. Instead, she rubs her fingers against his scalp, as though she’s the one that’s supposed to be comforting him.

“I can control it a little bit,” she tells him, voice quiet as she presses a kiss to the top of his head. “I still don’t understand it, but I can...if I focus, I can choose what vibrates.”

He looks up at her, feeling a glimmer of hope about all of this.

“Without hurting yourself?”

“Yeah,” she smiles down at him, and he presses his face back against her stomach, rubbing his nose over her cotton dress.

“Were you going to show me?”

“I got kind of distracted,” she informs him wryly, though her fingers keep stroking his hair.

“You want to tell me about it while I finish dinner?”

“Yeah,” she answers again. “And you can tell me what you’ve been holding back about the team?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, unable to hold back a smile.

They take their time getting dressed, though there’s not much to do, and Coulson can’t quite keep himself from kissing her a little desperately, a little like something too good to be true, something that might disappear on him.

Skye humors him, though, between tucking him back into his boxershorts and re-fastening her bra. She kisses him like she understands, like she’s afraid to lose him, too.

Once they’re dressed, she doesn’t sit at the table or on the counter, but instead helps him assemble their sandwiches and stirs the soup while he drops them onto sizzling cast iron. They move together well, and talk with a quiet companionship that relaxes him — things feel more right than they have since before he left her here.

And for this date, they wait until they’re done eating to make it to Skye’s bed.

 

 


End file.
